


Blackbird Singing

by HarrisonHolmes2014



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Molly Hooper, Beatles Music, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Molly Hooper Has A Backbone, Musician Molly Hooper, Original Hooper-Holmes Child(ren), POV Sherlock Holmes, Referenced Drug Overdose, Referenced Drug Use, References to the Beatles, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Songfic Characteristics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-05 17:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4188426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarrisonHolmes2014/pseuds/HarrisonHolmes2014
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock didn't expect his past to sneak up on him on this last case. When it does, it earns him the wrath of Molly Hooper. Strangely, however, his mistake might just be the thing both he and Molly are looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackbird Singing

**Author's Note:**

> Continuation of "Chemical Reactions" and "Burned." I apologize for this one coming out of sync with the other four; it just sort of happened, as a character we love once put it. :) Like the others, it can be read on its own, but is most effective when read between "Burned" and "Pressure Points." Rated mature mainly for drug use. Enjoy!

The needle gleams faintly in the beams of someone’s camping lantern. I had almost forgotten how long and perfectly sharp they are. Science’s finest weapons, designed to bring both pain and deliverance from it. Which one depends on the person directing it. As I look at the needle, I realize that I’m not entirely certain which one I'm going to get.

It was always deliverance before. It was an escape, a reprieve from my mind’s never-ending stream of thoughts and observations. This time is different. Even in the low light, I can see that the needle’s silvery gleam is dull, its glass barrel smudged with fingerprints.

But at this point, I’m beyond caring about hygiene.

Carefully, I roll up my stained left sleeve. All the traces of needles past are gone now, save for a small scar where the wound became infected, initiating Round 1 of rehab. I position the needle’s point beside the scar, smiling ruefully. Rehab may help you stop taking drugs, but it can never erase the memories.

One of my fellow junkie-den dwellers snuffles in her sleep, and another mutters incomprehensibly to the wall. I pay no more attention to them than this. No one in here cares about what I’m doing. And as I recognize this, a wonder drifts to the fore of my mind. Would anyone outside of here care should this end badly? I pause, lowering the needle, to consider.

_Lestrade: Probably not. Cops are accustomed to dealing with drug-related deaths. ___

_Mrs. Hudson: Possibly, but she would get over her grieving. She did when I was gone. ___

_John: No. He doesn’t need me anymore, not now that he has domestic bliss. ___

_Moira: No. She’s too young. There’s no way she would remember her father. ___

_Molly – ___

Without warning, the litany in my head stops. A memory interrupts it, the memory of us in a hospital room, her arms round my neck, her lips on mine. I had thought that meant something, but apparently it didn't, as we haven't shared another kiss since. Pain sears my chest, as if something inside there is being twisted and torn, almost beyond endurance. Trying to tell myself it’s all in my head, I finish my thought: _Molly has Meat Dagger now. ___

This analysis only heightens the twisting sensation in my chest. It makes my breath catch and burns my throat until I grit my teeth against it. This is where sentiment gets you, Holmes. Odd, given that I had once effectively shut it out. And I recall that I did it for this exact reason: to stop the pain, sentiment’s only guaranteed result.

Tonight, the only way to make it stop is in my hand. Savage pleasure surges through me at the thought of beating my heart at its own game, and I plunge the needle into my arm. For one brief moment, I wonder if this foray might enlighten me as to how my walls against sentiment started to crumble. Before, it sometimes allowed me to find connections in my own memories, without the pain. I let my mind fall blissfully, sweetly silent, and I follow the heroin’s lure into the shadows of the past.  
_____________

_23rd July, 2008. _Round 3 of rehab has ended, and I’m back at work at last. Not much at the Yard has changed in my four-month absence. Lestrade is just as desperate for my help as ever, Donovan and Anderson still use each other for pleasure as needed. Clearly I remain surrounded by idiots.__

The only new element in my job comes walking into the lab one morning a couple of days after my return. It’s a short young woman, with a long blonde-brown ponytail and a slightly round, kind-looking face. Her iPod is in her ears, and she sings softly along, apparently not noting my presence. _“Blackbird singing in the dead of night / Take these broken wings and learn to fly…” _As I’m on a case, it’s against my will that I note she has a rather fine alto voice.__

When she takes out the earbuds, her back to me, I clear my throat to announce myself. She jumps about a foot in the air, screams, and drops her clipboard. Her face pink, she mutters an apology and scrambles about, picking up her papers. “You surprised me. There’s almost never anyone in here besides me,” she says, avoiding my eyes.

I watch her gathering her things, making my usual list of observations. _Oversized sweater with form-fitting jeans: Lack of confidence in breast size, not hips. Small mouth, no lipstick: Too busy to care. Blushing and dilated eye pupils – wait. What? ___

I keep watching her, waiting for her to look up and confirm this last, surprising deduction. I’m not wrong: as the stranger looks up at me, I see the dark brown irises continuing to shrink as black takes them over. I wait for her to speak again, a bit uncomfortable as she’s staring openly at me.

“I’m sorry,” the woman stammers suddenly, blinking and looking away. “But who are you and what are you doing in my lab?”

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” I tell her, turning my attention back to the hair sample under my microscope. “Is it your habit of singing aloud in the lab?”

“No. Sorry,” she hastily adds.

“Continued apologies are not necessary, thank you. But I will have to ask you not to do it again, Miss…?”

“Hooper,” she says breathlessly. “Doctor Molly Hooper.”

“My work often requires a lab, and a great deal of concentration. Your lab is very well-equipped, so it’s highly likely that you will see me here again. As pleasant of an alto voice you have, I really can’t allow it to break my concentration.”

“Right,” she says in a dazed sort of voice.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Hooper,” I say, still looking down through the microscope.

“You said I was an alto,” she blurts out. “How did you know? Are you a musician?”

Conversation-making. Wonderful. “Yes,” I answer shortly, hoping that my tone will encourage her to leave. But she doesn’t.

“What do you play?”

“The violin.”

“Well, then, maybe we should get together sometime and make some beautiful music,” she says. Her eyes go wide, and the pink in her cheeks deepens to scarlet as she rushes on. “Not that I mean anything by that, you know, I just don’t meet many musicians here, and I like to sing, so I thought…” Her sentence trails off, and she finishes in a small, flat voice, “I think I’d better get going.” With that, she darts out of the lab, the little curl at the end of her ponytail bouncing.

Molly Hooper does indeed see me again. And again. Most of the time, she initiates it, coming into the lab with all sorts of transparent excuses for being there. Her clear infatuation with me possesses her to let me use her lab for my own research. Though slightly awkward, given that she can barely speak to me without blushing, the arrangement is convenient.

But Molly Hooper contains a few surprises. One afternoon a few months later, after an experiment involving a body and a riding crop, she puts on lipstick and asks me, with unusual confidence, if I would like to have coffee. My mind is on other things, and I answer without thinking. “Black, two sugars, please. I’ll be upstairs.”

It’s only when she hands me a steaming cup of coffee in the lab, and I see that her lipstick is gone, that I realize she meant something quite different.  
______________

“Well? Is he clean?”

My shoulders tense at John’s question. I don’t see why everyone’s making such a fuss. So I slipped up. But I only did it once, for God’s sake.

“Clean?” Molly says. Her voice is steady, but colder than I’ve ever heard it. Slowly, deliberately, she walks in front of me. Her dark eyes bore into mine, and every inch of her small frame trembles with barely suppressed fury. I brace myself for a tirade like the one she gave me the night I met Moira.

WHAP!

Molly’s hand strikes my left cheek with such force that my head swings right around to the side. I never imagined someone that short could have such arm power. Before my face can even start stinging, another open-handed slap follows the first, and another on the right cheek. I don’t quite know why I stand there and take it, except for the very small part of me that knows I was asking for something like this to happen.

“How dare you?” Molly says, cold fury in every word. “How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with? And how dare you betray the love of your friends! Say you’re sorry!”

Her slap and words are like something straight out of a 1940s film. It would be comical if not for the sagging weight of guilt trying to tug at my lungs. More to stop this feeling than anything, I use the one observation I gleaned from her slaps. “Sorry your engagement’s over, though I’m fairly grateful for the lack of a ring,” I mutter. Not quite true: Meat Dagger was an idiot of the first rank.

“Stop it. Just. Stop. It,” Molly snarls. I made a decent attempt at scorn when I mentioned the ring. But her voice is more full of pure, bone-chilling contempt than mine could ever be.

After the fireworks are over, I race after Molly. Grabbing her arm, I turn her round to face me, though no words occur to me. But she takes away the need for me to speak. She pulls away and orders, “I want you here in the lab three times a week for drug tests. And an HIV test.”

Indignation and pride finally come to my aid. “Molly, do you honestly think that I can’t control myself well enough to – ”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do think that,” she cuts me off, narrowing her eyes. “We’re going to do the tests for as long as I see fit. If you give me any trouble, I’ll make sure John and Mycroft step in. And,” she raises her voice when I try to speak, “you’re not coming anywhere near Moira until I’m bloody sure you have your shit back together.”

“What?” My brain reels, making the entire hall seem to spin. Broken visions of my curly-haired little girl burst into my mind. Her thin face glowing over an experiment. Her high soprano singing Motown music as she does the washing up. Her small arms hugging my leg and her voice crying out, _Daddy!... ___

“No.” Part of me can’t believe I’m actually begging. “No, Molly, please. Don’t keep her from me, you can’t…”

“Watch me.” Molly’s voice remains steady, calm, full of disdain. “You claim you think everything through, but you never think about what your actions might do to you. Or to the people who love you.” She pauses, and finally I find the courage to look at her. I see no pity or sympathy in the dark eyes, just anger and disgust. As she turns away, she says quietly, “I think it’s about damn time you had some consequences.”

Molly’s words go through me like daggers. Before I can think of anything to say, she gives me one last contemptuous glare and stalks off through the doors leading to the morgue.  
______________

_Christmas Eve, 2009. _John talked me into a Christmas party at Baker Street, and I have no idea what possessed me to agree. Christmas is all just one big bother, when you think about it. It’s really no more than an excuse to drink, one that Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade have fully embraced. I sit in my customary chair, looking into the fire, thinking that boredom will be the word of the night.__

That is, until Molly Hooper walks in. She has on a simple black dress, the most form-fitting garment I’ve ever seen her wear. Bright, whore-red lipstick makes her normally smallish lips seem to jump out of her face. Finally, she’s taken a curling iron to her hair and set off the style with a silver gift bow. Though the curls and the lipstick don’t suit her at all, her transformation commands attention, especially the flattering dress. It accentuates her curves, makes her seem somehow taller and her posture straighter. More confident.

My stomach gives a funny jolt at this realization. Since when did I ever pay attention to physical features when they aren’t important? And, even more: since when did I ever allow myself to be distracted by such thoughts as applied to a woman, any woman?

Unnerved by my own observations, I look around the room. My eyes fall on the bag of presents on the floor beside Molly. The one at the top is a neatly wrapped package, with a bow, the paper the exact same shade of red as Molly’s lipstick. None of the other gifts are that neat, or are wrapped in that precise shade of red. I could laugh with relief. The chance at a deduction will provide some welcome distraction from those observations about Molly’s appearance.

Before I have any time to think about it, I’m off. I point out the beautifully wrapped gift, how it’s so obviously for someone special, how the redness of the paper establishes a connection between Molly and the present. This means her intentions are romantic, and serious, because there’s a present at all. Then, of course, there’s the fact that she’s seeing this mystery man tonight.

“It’s evident from her makeup and what she’s wearing,” I explain, seeing a look of confusion on John’s face. “Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts.” I take a look at the tag neatly taped to the top of the box, just underneath the gold bow.

_Dearest Sherlock; Love, Molly xxx ___

Oh.

The silence in the room seems to thicken and stiffen like left-out custard. Wave after wave of shock washes over me, wiping out all other thought except for what that little tag says. _It’s me. I’m the special someone. _It's long been common knowledge, at Bart's and the Yard, that Molly fancies me. Sometimes I've caught knowing looks in our colleagues' eyes when she and I were working together, even from Anderson. But I didn’t think her feelings for me went any further than a silly adolescent crush.__

Molly’s voice breaks the silence. “You always say such horrible things,” she says quietly. Her tone is the calm, level one she uses in the lab when stating a fact. “Every time. Always, always…” Her voice slowly dies off, and she smiles ruefully at nothing.

A weight seems to tug at my heart, and for a moment I can’t work out what it is. Then I realize: for the first time I can recall, I’m regretting my words. I hear my next sentence come out of my mouth as though a stranger speaks it. “I am sorry. Forgive me.”

Her eyes widen, but that’s nothing compared to what they do after I brush my lips to her cheek. I’m more than a little shocked myself. That kiss was unplanned; I had intended to just apologize and leave it at that. Quietly, I tell her, “Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.”

The tension breaks immediately afterward, thanks to wonderful timing from Miss Adler (and a suggestive text alert on my phone). As the party starts to wind down, I see Molly sneak out after John’s current girlfriend, her head bowed slightly, leaving the bag of gifts behind. But I think I might be the only one who noticed.  
______________

Three weeks have passed since the lab slap, three of the longest weeks of my life. The good news is that I have a new case, working against the most disgusting worm ever to crawl the earth: Charles Augustus Magnussen, master blackmailer. However, stopping him requires getting into his personal files in his office, which requires inside assistance. Janine, the bridesmaid at John’s wedding who happened to be Magnussen’s PA, is the best provider.

The bad news is that her help comes with a price. I’ve had to put on a show of being in love once or twice in my career, but that does not mean I enjoy it. My only consolation is that I’m apparently not the only actor here. Every time Janine and I are together, I get the same sense of something missing on her end, a gap where her belief in this charade should be. But, judging by her habit of returning to Baker Street for more wild nights, she thinks that I believe her act.

In between research on Magnussen and playing the part of smitten boyfriend, I obey Molly’s orders and come to St. Bart’s three times each week for drug tests. Every single test checks out clean, including the HIV test she ran the first day (I'm more relieved about this than I reveal). We don’t often speak during these moments together, save for greetings, the test results, and goodbyes. The one time I asked how Moira was, Molly refused to answer me, so it’s best to say nothing more than the bare minimum.

It’s evening; the streetlamps have come on. But if I look closely, I can see a few stars in the dusky blue sky. My mind repeats bits of Molly's song, the one that haunts me: _Blackbird, fly / Into the light of a dark black night. _There’s no sound in Baker Street apart from the swish of traffic and that incessant repetition in my own head.__

As I watch a stray car trundle down the street, my thoughts wander to Moira. The flat has been sad and silent without her running through it, shouting experiment results, or singing as she helps Mrs. Hudson with her cleaning downstairs. But Molly’s instinct to protect Moira from her own father, I must admit, is a good one. Molly…a knife seems to twist into my chest when I remember the slaps, the disappointment and fury in her voice.

My phone is in my hand before I have the chance to reason myself out of it. After a moment’s hesitation, I text Molly’s number: _Come to Baker St. now. Please. – SH ___

I’m not expecting a response. So it’s a bit of a shock when, five minutes later, my phone bleeps. _What do you want? – M ___

_I’ll tell you when you get here. Just come. – SH ___

_Why should I? – M ___

Even in a text message, the coolness is clear. Part of me wishes I had just left things as they were and allowed time to fix it. But then another memory resurfaces, the memory of our last night together after the fall. A far cry from the nearly nightly farces I endure with Janine…

It was the first time in years, save for drug-induced stupors, that my mind went completely still. The only time it stopped its constant monologue and simply drank in what was happening, without trying to analyze it. And what it drank in was her: how smooth and soft her skin was, the sound of her breathing and her voice, what it felt like to have her arms around me.

That was the moment I learned what it is to be content. The thought of losing the woman who showed me that feeling, or that I probably have already lost her, hurts more than any torture man could devise. I will hold on to the hope that I can mend things between us until I’m forced to let go. My fingers shaking slightly, I type three words:

_I need you. _  
________________

_8th January, 2011. _I sit on the floor of the darkened lab, bouncing a squash ball against a desk. The thumps beat out a steady rhythm, forcing my thoughts to keep time and thus be clearer. I don’t know if she’ll help me. Given the way I’ve treated her in the past, especially that disastrous Christmas, I would say it’s highly unlikely. She doesn’t think she means anything to me. Again I hear our last conversation in my head:__

_You can see me. ___

_I don’t count. ___

I hear a door open on the other side of the lab, and the quick footsteps that can only belong to one person. I speak quietly: “You’re wrong, you know.” I hear Molly gasp and turn to face me, but I go on. It’s essential she know this, just in case my attempt to escape Moriarty’s strange net should fail. “You do count. You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you…”

I manage to get it all out, tell her that I’m most likely going to die tomorrow. Her face grows progressively whiter with each word I speak, making her brown eyes stand out starkly. But she doesn’t complicate matters with pointless questions. The only thing she asks of me is this: “What do you need?”

“You,” I say simply.

Hours and hours later, a thin strip of pale gold breaks through the window in Molly’s office. I watch it slowly illuminate the mountain of empty coffee cups and Molly's pale, drawn face as she goes over the plan one final time. “So once you’re out, the staff bring you up to the morgue. Lestrade sees you, everyone thinks you’re dead, I zip you up in a body bag and wait for Mycroft’s people. Then, they help me swap you out with Moriarty’s old henchman,” she recites, her voice flat with exhaustion.

“Correct.”

“Sherlock, so much still relies on chance,” she says uncertainly.

“Air mattresses don’t just burst open,” I tell her, hoping I sound calmer than I feel.

“No, no, I mean the last bit. My bit.” Molly passes a hand over her eyes, and I hear her voice tauten with fear. “I’m a pathologist, not an anesthesiologist. What if – ”

“ – you do it wrong?” I finish for her. It’s very difficult to keep a bite of impatience out of my voice. We’ve gone over this point at least ten times. “Impossible. I measured it out myself. It’s enough to keep me unconscious for two hours, no more. That will be enough time for Mycroft’s people to find me and get me out of St. Bart’s.”

“And then to my flat.” She might just be making sure she has that part straight, that she understands. But she can’t hide the tiny glimmer of anticipation in her eyes.

I nod, deciding it would be best not to mention this. “Really, Molly, there’s nothing to be concerned about,” I tell her. But she looks as if she doesn’t believe me.

Four hours after dawn, at ten a.m. precisely, I launch myself off of St. Bart’s roof. The entire plan works without a hitch, even the squash ball trick to cut off my pulse. The only sticky moment occurs when the sham hospital staff wheel me into a basement room to meet Molly. She stands near a door leading to the inside of the hospital, a long anesthesia needle in one hand. As soon as we stop in front of her, all the blood completely drains from her face at the sight of me. I must look terrible, covered as I am in fake blood.

“Molly,” I say, as gently as I can manage while being stern at the same time. She can’t lose her nerve now. Thankfully, the sound of her name seems to act as a stimulant. She slowly moves forward, rolls up my right sleeve, and carefully positions the needle just above my elbow.

The sharp silver pierces my skin and medicine flows into my veins. Almost immediately my eyelids start to feel unbearably heavy. I try to focus on Molly’s face, hoping that with a look I can remind her of what she must do next. In that brief moment, that swift glance, I could swear I see tears glistening in her dark eyes.

I’m not dead. What’s she crying about?  
______________

A knock on the door of Baker Street shatters the silence. When I open it, Molly brushes past me without even a hello. I follow her, a bit apprehensively, up the stairs and into the small sitting-room. She sits on the sofa as though carved out of marble, looking me challengingly in the eyes. “Well?” she says stiffly. “What do you want?”

“To apologize,” I answer.

Molly’s eyes narrow, and her shoulders tense. “Don’t tell me you’ve been using again.”

“No,” I say hurriedly. _Brilliant, Holmes: off on the wrong foot already. _“But it is that topic that I wish to discuss with you.”__

“What’s left to discuss?” she asks coldly. “You fell off the wagon.”

I finally sit down beside her, not too close. “I know,” I tell her. “And I’ve regretted it very much ever since. And not just because it’s separated me from Moira.”

“Do you know why I did that? Reacted like I did?” Molly’s question comes out of her in a faraway tone, as though she hasn’t really been listening.

“I would assume it’s because I fell off the wagon, as you put it.”

“Well, yes,” she says. Her hands tighten in her lap, her sign of internal pain, and her eyes close. “But there’s another reason. One I’ve never mentioned to anyone.” Slowly, seeming to drag itself out of the darkest reaches of her mind, a name escapes her: “Danny Hooper. My brother.”

Molly needs to say no more than that. Through the shock of discovering she had a brother, a piece of information she’s somehow kept from me all this time, my imagination dives into her past. In my mind’s eye I see a young man, barely more than a teenager, his arms scarred and pockmarked from endless jabs. He crouches in the shadows, a silver needle gleaming in his hand. When he looks up, he has the same dark eyes as his sister.

“He overdosed.” It’s not a question. Only one end to Danny Hooper’s story could make Molly react to my own mistake like she did. Her face turned away from me, she nods mutely. Curiosity drags the question from my lips before I can stop it. “How old was he?”

“Nineteen,” Molly answers. “And I was twenty-one. I identified him.”

This final piece of information seems to burst out of her without conscious thought. For a moment, she doesn’t speak, and her shoulders slope down in an inaudible sigh. Though she’s not crying, her face is taut with emotion. She wore that same expression the morning I left England.

“So do you see now, Sherlock?” she asks quietly. She looks directly at me, and her words sound wrenched out of her. “I couldn’t stand the thought of having to identify your body next.”

The simple statement and her frank gaze send a wave of remorse surging up through my chest. Before I know what I’m doing, before I even have time to think about it, I hug her. She doesn’t resist: I feel her arms come around me in return, surprisingly gentle given the situation. My head comes to rest on her shoulder, my face buried in the side of her neck. We stay like that for a long time, not speaking.

At last, I find the only words that don’t sound empty and insincere. “I’m sorry, Molly,” I murmur in her ear, not even trying to stop my voice from shaking. “I’m so sorry.”

Molly doesn’t answer, but her hand lightly brushes the side of my head. Almost automatically, it seems, she starts to sing. She usually sings to comfort Moira, so I assume it’s habit by now. I close my eyes and listen to the familiar song:

_“Blackbird singing in the dead of night / Take these broken wings and learn to fly / All your life / You were only waiting for this moment to arise.” ___

Her alto voice washes over me, astounding in its simplicity. She certainly isn’t an operatic singer, but her voice is free of trembles and cracks, and it has a warm, sweet tone unlike any other I’ve heard. I can see why Moira likes to hear her sing.

_“Blackbird singing in the dead of night / Take these sunken eyes and learn to see / All your life / You were only waiting for this moment to be free.” ___

Without my controlling it, one of my hands moves. It shifts slowly from Molly’s back to the thick, soft hair that she didn’t have time to pull back. As my fingers comb through it, her arms tighten around me. For the first time this evening, her voice shakes a little as she finishes out the song.

_“Blackbird, fly / Blackbird, fly / Into the light of a dark black night.” ___

I lift my head off of her shoulder and look her straight in the eyes. Understanding came to me as I listened, and she needs to know it. “There was one good thing about what I did,” I tell her, my hand on her cheek.

“What’s that?”

“It helped me see how I learned that sentiment isn’t always a disadvantage. I have you to thank for that.” Out of nowhere, out of nothing, I’m kissing her like I’ve never kissed her before. Hungrily, desperately, as if her lips hold some life-giving power that's my only hope for redemption (an idea not that far from truth). To my delight, she returns the kiss, her mouth yielding to mine, as accepting and open as her heart. A heart that, for whatever reason, she gave to me, and that I hope to deserve one day.

After several long moments, or perhaps several shining, glorious days, Molly breaks away from me. Her eyes are steadily growing blacker, and I imagine mine must look fairly similar. As if she reads my mind, her lips curve up in a knowing smile, and she stands up from the sofa. Her shoulders back and her posture straight with confidence, she slowly walks across the sitting-room. She doesn’t look back as she vanishes down the hallway leading to my room.

I follow her.  
______________

_11th January, 2012. _With a jolt that shakes my entire body, I’m wrenched back into consciousness. For a moment I don’t quite register the tiny, windowless room, currently smothered in two feet of Russian snow. My brain is still trying to shake this most recent vision, yet another night visit from_ her._

I sit up, which takes some effort as I’ve somehow tangled myself in the thin, ragged blanket. When I finally wriggle free of it, I put my hands over my eyes, wanting to keep the dream in my mind palace with the others. She paid me another visit tonight, a visit somehow more vivid and powerful than ever. When I awoke, I swore I could still feel her lying beside me, her arms around me. I lost count long ago of how many reunions we’ve had in my sleep, but never before have I awoken with such a strong sense of her presence.

The phone that Mycroft gave me to keep in touch with him, and him alone, glows dully in the night. With a little squirm in my stomach, I note the date. That would explain this dream’s extra vividness: it’s an anniversary of sorts.

One year after my departure from England, the hunt for Moriarty’s remaining supporters is going strong. But many of them are still at large, still desperate, still hungry for revenge. Every night I fear that my dreams will make me shout out a name in my sleep. Tackling a criminal network this extensive means that I can’t ever assume I’m alone. Even in a safe, underground location like this one.

Dangerous as they are, dreams of my former life keep me sane. Sometimes it’s John who appears, smiling to see me again. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson visits me and tells me off whenever I’ve skipped one too many baths (easy to do in these conditions). Lestrade even shows up every once in a while, wanting my advice on something or other.

Not all of the dreams are pleasant. The dead Moriarty’s black shadow sometimes swoops down on all of them, swallowing them in darkness. I occasionally relive the scene in the graveyard, too, hearing John’s grief-broken voice echoing in my head: _One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t be dead. ___

None of these nighttime specters, however, visit me as many times as she does. My mind constantly replays the memory of our first, and only, night together. The replays are sharply accurate, for one reason. As I lay in bed with her that night, both of us struck silent with the magnitude of what we’d just done, I memorized her. The smooth, soft texture of her hair. The precise location of each freckle. The exact size and shape of the breasts I had once called too small. Her scent.

I took all of it in and tucked it away, into my mind palace. I didn’t care how many things I had to delete to make space for her. All that mattered to me was that I remember. For all I know, that first time could also turn out to be the last. Nobody promised me that I would return from this journey alive.

Somewhere out in the woods, I hear a bird singing. I’m amazed any birds remain here in the darkest days of winter. Though I normally would not put stock into such an idea, I can’t help but feel that the song is a sign. Words on that exact topic poured from her the first time I laid eyes on her: _Blackbird singing in the dead of night. ___

My mind’s desperate part takes this seeming coincidence as a sign that she’s all right.  
_______________

I lie still, listening to the sound of breathing filling my room. Even if I wanted to move, I don’t think I would be able to manage it. My limbs feel heavy, as if the blood within them has been replaced with molten gold. Only that metaphor could properly communicate the sheer, utter contentment that keeps me glued to the bed.

Many ancient peoples believed that sexual union was the way to commune with the divine. To become part of something that defies the constraints of space and time, a thing of infinite beauty. I have never really paid much attention to anything that makes such a claim. We have no proof that God, however you like to define it, actually exists. But after this night, part of my mind wryly suggests that maybe those ancients were on to something.

Molly’s head rests on my chest, a warm and comforting weight. If I lift my head a bit I can just barely see her, the dark outline of her body’s curves and angles. With some effort, my hand moves to her head and strokes her blonde-brown hair. At first I think she might be asleep, but then I feel the muscles in her cheek tighten and lift in a smile.

“Molly?” I say quietly, my voice weak with exhaustion and pleasure.

“Yes?”

“Shall I assume this means I’ve been forgiven?” I try to keep my tone light, as if I ask in jest. But my longing for an answer, my need to be certain that I haven’t lost her after all, burns like fire. I wait for a response, needing to know and terrified of what I might hear.

Slowly, Molly lifts her head and rests her chin on my chest, looking directly into my face. Her dark eyes, like Moira’s do, seem to see beyond my own and look into my very soul. I can only pray that she sees the love for her, and for our daughter, that lives in it.

At last, Molly speaks. “Well, I can’t pretend I’m not still a bit pissed at you.”

I wonder if she can feel my heart sinking beneath her chin. “Yes…” I say hesitantly, not entirely sure how else I should respond to this statement.

To my great surprise, and even greater relief, she smiles. Carefully, she crawls forward until her face is level with mine, our eyes locked. Her hair cascades down around both of our faces, sending a whiff of strawberry shampoo into my nostrils. She rests one hand on my cheek, and I close my eyes, enjoying how perfectly her hand curves around the bone, echoing its shape.

She speaks again, her voice dropping to a low murmur. “But anger doesn’t rule out forgiveness.”

Relief sweeps over me, a wave so powerful that it might have knocked me over if I’d been standing. “Molly…” I begin, not knowing how I can put all these things rattling around in my head into words, but she cuts me off.

“It’s Sunday. That means it’s your turn to watch Moira this week.”

I don’t think: my hand flies to the back of Molly’s head and draws her to me for a kiss. When she breaks away from me, she’s still smiling. She resumes her original position with her head on my chest, and her left hand twines with my right. I feel another little leap of relief in my stomach, this time at the absence of metal around her finger. I don’t want to see or feel a band on that finger again…unless it’s one that I put there. Part of my brain laughs a bit at this thought, given that marriage had once been unthinkable for me.

Sleep is starting to weigh on my eyelids, but I have to ask Molly one last thing. “You’ll stay here, tonight, then? You’ll stay with me?”

Her hand lightly squeezes mine, and I feel her lips brush my chest. “Always.”

Barely five minutes later, Molly’s breathing is deep and slow, her fingers relaxed in mine. I close my eyes, my heart still warm at the thought of her promise. Tiredness and happiness pull me towards sleep, but my mind softly repeats the words just before I give in:

_All your life / You were only waiting for this moment to arise. ___


End file.
